


"Making Up Before The Fight"

by AloryShannon



Category: Weiss Kreuz
Genre: Gen, Humour, Missing Scene, Oneshot, bromance! lol, crackfic, genfic for the win!, not yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 00:46:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AloryShannon/pseuds/AloryShannon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ken has some difficulty preparing for a certain mission, and receives some interesting aid from a rather surprising corner. Oneshot. Takes place towards the end of Episode 6.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Making Up Before The Fight"

**Author's Note:**

> For irishmastermind on LJ. Because any and all Weiß fic that comes from me is entirely her fault, and she played an EPIC Ken. <33  
> ...Also, for those of you who haven't seen Weiß or need your memories jogged a bit...[yes that is Omi on the right](http://i48.photobucket.com/albums/f204/alory_shannon1/anime%20screenshots/Weiss%20Kreuz/lol_stewardessOmi.png), and [haha, doesn't Ken look thrilled?](http://i48.photobucket.com/albums/f204/alory_shannon1/anime%20screenshots/Weiss%20Kreuz/Weiss_Airlines.png) |D

This world really _was_ hell, Hidaka Ken thought bleakly as he surveyed the impressive array of foreign instruments of torture before him.

At least, that’s what all the various tubes, cases, oddly-shaped sponges, and other makeup-related objects looked like to him. He poked through the items a little more, finally picking up one particularly worrisome piece, some strange-looking metal device. (“I think it’s an eyelash curler,” Omi had said when Ken shoved the thing in his face and demanded to know what the hell it was.) Ken stared at it, then dropped it back onto the bathroom counter with a dull clatter and quiet, aggravated growl.

Omi had given him the kit, which he had in turn been given by Manx, since they’d both need it to prepare for the next stage of their current mission.

“I don’t understand why _I_ hafta do it,” Ken had grumbled when Omi revealed this mission’s _coup de grâce._ “Aya looks a lot more like a woman than I do, ya know!”

The violet-eyed assassin shifted a slow glare Ken’s way, and though he maintained his silence, his expression was answer enough: _no way in hell._ Or maybe it had been _over my dead body_ \--the two glares were more or less interchangeable.

“Aya-kun is too tall!” Omi had protested, surprisingly insistent on this point. “Since you and I are the shortest, we’ll have to be the stewardesses, Ken-kun.”

“Yeah, stop complaining already. It’s not like this is the first time you’ve had to dress like a woman for a mission,” Yohji had pointed out with a teasing smirk.

Ken huffed out a sigh of irritation at the memory. That situation had been entirely different, after all. Acting as a decoy out in the middle of nowhere was one thing--no one had been around to see, and it had been dark, so he hadn’t had to wear makeup. Or _pantyhose._ Or shave his legs so he _could_ wear pantyhose. (He still had yet to open _that_ particular package, and therefore yet to discover that instead of the standard thin, flesh-toned pantyhose, Manx had gotten them opaque, navy-coloured tights, which made his shaving entirely unnecessary.)

Scowling into the mirror, Ken gave his reflection a final, critical once-over, deciding that he hadn’t done that bad of a job and that he’d probably fit right in…if their mission had been going undercover as geisha. As it was, he looked like one of those older women who were trying too hard to disguise their age, wearing their lipstick too bright and their eyeshadow too dark.

With a grunt of disgust, he threw most of the makeup back in the bag, leaving what had proved to be something of a Waterloo behind on the counter for the time being; he was more than finished with it, and Omi had already used the stuff, so it didn’t matter how he treated it anymore. Jamming his hands into his pockets, Ken kicked the already-slightly-ajar bathroom door the rest of the way open, dearly hoping that he wouldn’t run into any of his teammates just yet. The teasing was inevitable, but he wasn’t quite ready to deal with it.

It was in keeping with his bad luck lately that, as he stepped out of the bathroom, Aya just so happened to be coming up the stairs. The redhead didn’t say a word, as per usual, but his abrupt stop and his quick double-blink said _worlds._

Ken’s scowl only deepened, and he could feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment as Aya continued to stare, something like vague disbelief on his face. With a low growl, the former soccer star stomped towards him. _“What?_ I know it looks bad, but it was the best I could do, and you didn’t want this role, so just get outta my way!”

He was more than a little startled when, in the middle of his indignant march past Aya, he felt the other man’s hand close around his upper arm, pulling him to a stop. Teeth bared, he jerked his head sideways to snarl up at the taller man. “What’s the idea, huh? Let go!”

Aya didn’t reply; he just continued to look at him silently for a moment--just long enough to make Ken thoroughly uncomfortable, and more than a little angry.

“Hey, you bastard, I said—!”

“Wash your face,” Aya said, calmly cutting off Ken’s tirade and hauling him back towards the bathroom, forcing the shorter man to perform a series of odd hops to prevent himself from losing his balance and taking a nosedive into the wooden hallway floor.

“What?” Ken’s expression had gotten caught somewhere between anger and bewilderment, though it was obvious that confusion was fast winning the struggle for dominance.

“Just do it.” By that time they’d reached the bathroom, and Ken grimaced briefly at his reflection before Aya unceremoniously shoved him towards the sink, tossing him a washcloth. Then he stepped over to the makeup kit, dumping the contents out on the counter and sorting through it, taking careful stock of the materials at hand.

It took plenty of soap, warm water, and a good ten minutes of scrubbing for Ken to get all the makeup off. By the time he’d finished, Aya was done with whatever he’d been doing with the makeup and was clearly waiting for him, arms crossed over his chest, face once again blank and unreadable.

“Sit.”

Ken gave him a wary look before settling himself on the edge of the rolling chair Aya must’ve snagged from the nearest bedroom (Omi’s). “What, are _you_ gonna give it a try now?” He gave a skeptical snort. Aya did tend to be surprisingly good at some strange things, but _this?_ There was just no way. “Like you’re gonna do any better—”

Aya’s only reply was to pick up a case of something called ‘foundation’ and come at Ken with one of the many wedge-shaped sponges Manx had included in the kit; soon he was busily spreading a thin layer of the strange brown paste over Ken’s face, forcing him to fall silent or get a mouthful of makeup-coated foam.

In truth, the silence was hardly forced: the former soccer star was taken aback enough by Aya’s apparent skill (or at least working knowledge, which was still a great deal more than he himself could claim) in this area that his silence stretched on even after Aya had finished with the foundation and moved on to the rouge and several different sorts of powder, fiddling about with all the little brushes that had so baffled Ken not a half hour ago.

The whole situation was bordering on the surreal, and everything about it left Ken feeling distinctly uncomfortable. The chair was not a particularly stable one, and the way Aya had him tilting his head back was giving him a crick in his neck. Having Aya leaning in close, focusing so intently on his face and yet not meeting his eyes didn’t make it any better, especially since Ken couldn’t really look anywhere but _straight at_ Aya or the redhead would warn him sharply to stop turning his head.

So, grumbling inwardly, he stared fixedly at Aya’s forehead (it had been Aya’s chin originally, but after the basic foundation and powders were on, Aya kept snapping at him to look up instead of down), trying to keep from fidgeting too much. His gaze started to wander a bit after a while, and he suddenly found himself gawking a little at the length of Aya’s eyelashes. Yuriko had been pretty, beautiful even, but her eyelashes hadn’t been _that_ long—hell, he couldn’t remember seeing _anyone_ with eyelashes like that aside from movie stars or people in commercials on TV, and theirs were probably fake most of the time.

With eyelashes like that, Aya really _should_ have been one of the ones to dress up like a woman.

This thought quickly jumped from ‘bitterly amusing irony’ to ‘indelible truth’ just moments later, when Aya started applying Ken’s eye makeup.

Trying to, rather.

“Hold still!”

“How can I hold still when you’re trying to poke my eye out?!”

Aya’s gaze had narrowed, his jaw visibly clenching as he growled, “That wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t moved in the first place! Now hold still!” Catching hold of Ken’s chin with one hand, he leaned in again, eyes hard and determined and just _daring_ Ken to try to move away again.

Brash and impulsive as he could be, Ken was far from suicidal: he knew better than to go up against an Aya who had _that_ look in his eye. He briefly bared his teeth, but he stayed still, and shut up for good measure. (It had nothing to do with the viselike grip Aya had on his face, or the fact that due to said grip, talking would result in moving. It was entirely voluntary. Really.)

He was so busy trying not to think about the fact that he could feel Aya’s breath on his face that he missed his next set of instructions.

“…Eh? What?”

“I said close your eyes.”

Something in Ken absolutely balked at this; somehow, it was taking the oddity of this whole ordeal to an all-new level of uncomfortable. But one look at Aya’s deadly serious (and far too close) face and the…was that a pencil in his hand?...and Ken sighed, screwed his courage to the sticking place, and closed his eyes, grimacing just slightly. At least Aya had released his hold on Ken’s face, which freed him to talk a little, something he took full advantage of in an attempt to distract himself from his own discomfort.

“…This is weird,” he muttered, meaning the situation as a whole, as well the fact that Aya somehow knew a lot about makeup…why _would_ he know so much? Ken pondered this for several moments before it hit him, and as it did his eyes snapped open (thankfully Aya had just finished the eyeshadow, and was rummaging around in the makeup kit looking for the mascara and a suitable shade of lipstick). “Hey! Is it because of your sister? Is that why you know what all this crap is for?” He struggled to picture stoic, no-nonsense Aya being made up by a giggling middle-school-age girl, and was unable to keep from snickering a little at the mental image of Weiss’s fearless leader with his hair full of ribbons and clips and pins, and with five pounds of makeup on his face. He seemed so devoted to his sister, she might’ve even gotten him into a dress…

As if sensing this train of thought, Aya instantly coloured--so faint that it was almost imperceptible; if Ken hadn’t been sitting so close, he probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all. Face still flushed, Aya looked him straight in the eye--the first time he’d done so since the hallway--and pronounced a calm, flat, “No” that quite clearly really meant “Yes”.

Ken stared back at him for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement as he fought a losing battle against the knowing grin slowly stretching across his face.

Aya straightened abruptly, closing his eyes and turning away with a snort of disgust. “Hurry up and get changed,” was all he said by way of reply, pausing only to shove a tube of pale pink lipstick at his teammate before heading for the door, Ken’s poorly-stifled laughter following him out.

Even after he was gone, Ken kept chuckling…until he looked up and caught sight of himself in the mirror, at which point he could only stare dumbly as the grin slipped right off his face.

\--

“What’s taking them so long?”

Yohji sighed and leaned back against the wall, idly tugging at the collar of his pilot’s uniform before turning a sly sideways smile down at the boy standing awkwardly to his left. “And who would’ve thought _you’d_ be the fastest at getting into a woman’s clothes?”

Omi grimaced, his face reddening at the double entendre, but he didn’t reply right away; he was too focused on getting used to the high heels Manx had left for him. He’d taken a few practise turns around the room already, but it still felt a little strange. “Ken-kun had to help Aya-kun close up the shop,” he said finally said, wobbling a bit as he started another careful circuit around the room.

Yohji just smirked and shook a cigarette out of the pack he’d pulled from a jacket pocket. “Heh. Well, I’m not surprised _you_ ended up being a stewardess.” He nudged the youngest Weiss member in the side with his elbow before placing an unlit cigarette between his teeth, grinning a little wider when the nudge caused Omi to waver visibly, then grab on to both Yohji’s shirtsleeve and the wall to keep his balance. “That’s what you get for being a bishounen, eh, Omi-kun? You didn’t need much makeup, either.” Ignoring the half-bewildered, half-embarrassed expression Omi had turned up at him, Weiss’ resident playboy turned his rakehell grin towards the stairs--he recognised the sound of the descending person’s step. “Now, Ken-kun, on the other hand—”

He stopped short as Ken came into view, whatever he’d been about to say completely abandoning him, leaving his mouth hanging open in shock, the unlit cigarette dropping to the floor, forgotten. Omi was silent as well, though his eyes were even wider than usual as they took in the unexpectedly delicate and feminine-looking face of Hidaka Ken (marred though it was by a deep scowl on seeing his teammates’ dumbfounded expressions).

Omi was the first to find his voice. “Ken-kun,” he said, still sounding rather taken aback, “you…you look…”

“Pretty damn adorable,” Yohji cut in with his trademark sleazy smile. “You’d better be careful on this mission, or someone might try to pick you up, Ken-chan~”

 _“Yohji-kun!”_ Omi hissed in admonishment, angling a frown up at the taller man.

“Oh, don’t worry, Omi-kun, I’m sure they’ll still be after you, too.”

“Oi! Shut up and let’s go already!” Ken grumped as he stalked past, the slightly-hollow-sounding clunk of his heels on the wooden floor cutting off abruptly as he slammed the door to the garage shut behind him.

Omi and Yohji were still staring after him a few seconds later when Aya came down the stairs to join them, silently passing the make-up kit off to Omi before following after Ken, leaving them staring after him in turn, a long, stunned silence stretching between them.

“…Yohji-kun…” Omi ventured at last. “…You don’t think…?”

“Nah,” Yohji said quickly, casually, though something in his tone made it sound more like a denial than a declaration. “Aya’s a pretty mysterious guy, but there’s just no way. Right?”

They exchanged dubious glances, but any further speculation was cut off by the reappearance of Aya himself, looking ill-tempered and irritable as usual.

“What are you just standing there for? We have a mission. Get in the car, or we’ll leave without you.”

“That’s right,” Yohji quipped, draping an arm around Omi’s shoulders and walking them both towards the glowering redhead. “We’ve got a flight to catch.”


End file.
